


A Place to Fall

by theskywasblue



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, M/M, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-14
Updated: 2011-02-14
Packaged: 2017-10-15 16:07:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/162525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theskywasblue/pseuds/theskywasblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"This is why we can't have nice things"</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Place to Fall

“This is why we can’t have nice things,” Dean grumbled, sounding honestly pissed off about it – and actually, Sam could sympathize. They were bruised and muddy, stuck in the shittiest, middle-of-nowhere-est squat in the history of their sordid lives, and there was an angel possibly bleeding to death on the only decent mattress.

Angels couldn’t actually bleed to death – at least as far as Sam knew – but his skin still crawled with the sound of Jormugand’s voice whispering, _You monotheists...you think you know everything there is to know about the world. Well know this, little angel: you’ll find no pity with Us. Your little autocracy will fall to ruin, and then it will Our time again._

And who knew what Pagan gods were capable of, anyway?

“Here,” Sam tossed Dean the first aid kit, headed to the kitchen to see if he could convince the taps to spit out some warm water that wasn’t the colour of something scraped off a shoe. The best he could get was lukewarm and faintly yellow, and when he got back to the main room, Dean had Castiel’s perennial trechcoat draped over the corpse of a chair and his suit jacket and dress-shirt open to examine the ruins of his chest.

“Looks like it’s starting to heal,” Sam offered, hoping to ease the worry-lines between his brother’s eyebrows as he set down the dish.

“Well it should be gone already,” Dean snarled, sounding prickly and exhausted, “you know that Sammy. He shouldn’t be like this. I knew it was a bad idea. Fucking Pagans...all they ever are is hungry.”

Sam knew guilt when he saw it; he was especially well-acquainted with Dean’s guilt, and maybe it was justified enough since they’d been there to back Castiel up but had been stupid enough to listen for that crucial spilt second when he’d said _don’t interfere with this,_ even though they’d been on the receiving end of their fair share of Pagan rituals and knew they were nothing but trouble with a capital – well, everything.

“Here, I’ll...”

“Just back off,” Dean barked, gritty and tired, hand lashing out and slapping ineffectually at Sam’s calf. “I got this.”

“Right,” Sam took a step back, hands raised in the universal gesture of _don’t be a dick_ , “you got it. Whatever you say.”

Sam sat down on the rodent-eaten wreckage of the couch – the damn thing had no legs and his knees came up around his ears – and wished that either of them had thought to ask Castiel why, exactly, he needed the help of a Pagan god anyway.

***

Sam was awake, all at once, like throwing on a light switch. He didn’t even remember falling asleep, but sleep seemed to sneak up on him these days; he would probably be into his fifties before he managed to work off eighteen months of total sleep debt.

If he managed to live that long.

The house was dark – no power, of course, they’d picked a _real_ winner this time – silent. No, not entirely silent. He could hear the familiar cadence of Dean’s voice, so low that he couldn’t make out any words, but there, and then a lower timbre, rougher.

Castiel. He was awake.

Sam opened his eyes, and by the moonlight through the grimy window, he could see Dean and Castiel standing next to the mattress, almost close enough together that their silhouettes were one and the same. They were obviously having one of what Sam thought of as _their conversations_ – the kind they could sometimes have without any words at all. Sam felt an old, familiar pang of jealousy, like he was seven years old again, watching Dad and Dean hunched over the journal, speaking in a code that Sam couldn’t decipher.

“Fuck ‘em Cas,” Dean was saying, low and urgent. Even in the shadows Sam could see the tension in his shoulders that meant he wanted to throw a punch, or maybe grab hold of Castiel and shake him. “You don’t need them to win this war. We’ll figure it out.”

“No Dean, it is no longer that simple. We cannot just...patch together a solution for this. I am _losing the war_ and without their help...”

“You have _our_ help Cas – me and Sam – you don’t need anything else.”

Normally by this point in the conversation, they would be shouting at each other. Sam realized they were staying quiet because they thought he was still asleep, but he didn’t really understand why.

“I need a miracle Dean. I don’t have the weapons or man-power to stand against Raphael for very much longer...I – “

“Don’t say that – don’t you fucking say that,” there was panic in Dean’s voice, and Sam thought automatically _here comes the violence_ feeling his muscles twist together and his heartbeat speed up, preparing to intervene before his brother got his head knocked in. “You are not giving up on this Cas. I’m not gonna let you.”

“Dean,” Castiel had this way of saying Dean’s name that was all longing, and Sam wondered if Dean had ever noticed the way he did. “Angels are not supposed to feel this way...this weak. I am tired, Dean, and...”

“And?” Urgent, angry, but also frightened. Sam could taste his own fear in the back of his throat, flavoured by the way that Castiel pronounced the word _weak_.

Castiel’s voice dropped lower still, heavy as a roll of thunder, “And no matter what happens, thank you for giving me a soft place to fall.”

Sam listened to his brother take a deep breath, saw the minute shift in his moon-drenched form as he leaned further into Castiel’s space, “A soft place to land, Cas. It’s a place to _land_.”

Dean leaned in and – oh – Sam squeezed his eyes shut again, because no, no way was he watching his brother kiss an angel of the Lord. Dean must have noticed the longing after all.

He didn’t open his eyes again until he heard the soft, dead leaf rustle of Castiel’s wings. Dean was still standing by the window, this time looking out like maybe he could see Castiel on the breakaway or something.

“Dean?”

He glanced back, “Yeah Sammy?” His voice sounded ragged, wet, and Sam was selfishly thankful for the darkness, thankful he couldn’t see how torn up Dean was.

He could have asked _are you okay?_ but then he’d have to own up to what he’d seen. Instead he went with, “Cas take off?”

He saw Dean’s head bob, nodding against the shadows. “Yeah.”

“He’ll be okay,” Sam offered, knowing that what Dean was feeling probably needed to hear the words, “he’ll be back.”

“I know,” Dean said, his voice dropping down so low that Sam almost lost it to silence. Dean sounded grateful, but Sam could hear the current of guilt underneath like a secret signal hidden in radio static.

Sam pushed down his sigh and let his eyes close again, wondering if Dean would ever realize that he could have this, if nothing else.

They all deserved something.

-End-


End file.
